Love Songs
by Rhianwen
Summary: Various and sundry drabbles and short stories featuring the cast of Magical Melodies. Chapter 3: The People Who Matter. Carl x Ellen.
1. Business Partners BobGwen

Love Songs

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Summary: Various and sundry drabbles and short stories featuring the boys and girls appearing in Magical Melodies. Love Songs, Magical Melodies, har-har. Yup, that's my idea of a joke. Chapter 1: Business Partners. Bob/Gwen.

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A warm summer afternoon, and two children stretched out in the grass.

A little girl, bright golden hair cropped as closely to her head as her mother will let her, and garbed in shorts and one of Daddy's old shirts.

A stocky little boy with a fuzz of dark curls over his head, eyes and face gentle despite dwarfing most children his age.

Gwen and Bob, seven years old.

"Hey, Bob?"

A rustle as the boy glances at her and then back up at the clouds.

"Yeah?"

"What do you want to do when you grow up?"

"I don't know yet. Gramps wants me to be a blacksmith like him, but I get tummyache in my head if I stay by the furnaces too long."

"So don't be a blacksmith, dummy."

"I like horses," Bob announces meditatively.

"So come run a ranch with me," Gwen shrugs. "That's not what I meant, anyway. What do you want to _do_ when you grow up?"

Bob blinks big dark confused eyes, and she huffs.

"I _mean_, do you want to travel, or get married and have twenty kids, or live in a tree house, or _what_?"

"I like it best at home, and I'm not good at climbing trees," Bob admits, "but I wanna get married someday."

"Really?" Gwen says indifferently, and she's only turning kinda pink 'cause it's so warm out.

Bob turns over, props himself up on his elbow, and gives her a beaming smile.

"Yeah. You don't mind if my wife and all my kids lives on our ranch with us, do you?"

"Only if they help with the horses," Gwen says sternly.

Bob grins.

"Don't worry. I'll only marry her if she likes horses and cooking and has pretty hair."

She returns his grin.

"Sounds like I'll like your wife."

In the back of her mind, she's busily devising a plan to scare away all the girls with pretty hair who like cooking and horses.

In the back of his mind, Bob is thinking that Gwen has awfully pretty hair, and bakes really good cookies.

But these are thoughts for another day.

After all, they're only _seven_.

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A warm summer evening, and two barely-grown-ups stretched out in the grass, heedless of the evening dew.

A young woman, bright golden hair dragged ruthlessly into a high ponytail, with her own ideas on the concept of _fashion_.

A tall, broad-shouldered young man with a wealth of dark curls over his head, eyes and face gentle as his disposition towards everyone but those who would threaten danger or misery to his loved ones.

Gwen and Bob, twenty-two years old.

"Hey, Gwen?"

A rustle of cloth on grass as the girl shifts onto her side to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"You got any particular plans for next year?"

A minute shrug.

"I don't know. I'll work at Uncle Doug's for a while, probably go back home, see if Mom and Dad can talk me back into school."

"I think I might start a ranch."

A guffaw.

"Seriously?"

He frowns.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

A snort.

"You're going to run a ranch by yourself?"

A hesitant silence.

"Well, I kind of thought I might look for a business partner."

"What about that wife you wanted? You know, _likes horses and cooking and has pretty hair_?"

"Nah. My taste's a lot more specific now."

"Okay," she shrugs, briefly cursing all those drinks at the Moonlight Café for making her face feel flushed, then flops back to the grass and stares idly up at the clouds barely visible against the night sky.

"Hey, Gwen?"

"Yeah?"

"You still think you might get married someday?"

A long silence, and then a faint rustle as she shrugs.

"Yeah, maybe."

A longer silence, filled only by his nearly audible attempt to summon up courage.

"How about next season?"

By the time the meaning of this question has completely penetrated her brain, he's already started tickling her nose lightly with a tuft of blue. She sits bolt upright and snatches it away.

"Forget it!"

To the end of his days, Bob will swear that he felt his heart plummet right through the ground, and right now he wishes that it would take him with it. He shoots her a smile that more resembles a grimace of pain.

"Oh…uh, okay. Sorry, I'll just…"

With a slightly shaking hand, he moves to retrieve the feather, and completely misses her grin as she yanks it away and holds it up above her head.

"Autumn's our busiest season; if we get married and start that ranch before summer ends, I can get out of it this year!"

Her cheeks are bright red in the moonlight, and he's dimly afraid that he's laughing like an idiot as he moves to kiss her.

"Man, you'll go to any lengths to get out of a little work, won't you, Gwen?"

The thunk of fist against muscle, and more laughter, quickly growing breathless as she half crawls and half leaps into his arms.

And nearby, a flurry of movement as a bedroom curtain is dropped back into place, and a girl with long chestnut brown ringlets and an abundance of frills gloats over a bet well won.


	2. Lessons in Time Management AlexGina

Lessons in Time Management - Alex/Gina

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"Hey, Alex, how's it going?"

Alex looks up from his desk and, and his forehead creases with a slight frown at Gina's warm smile of welcome for that new farmer, Graham, as the boy ambles across the main room and peers curiously down at the cutting board and herbs that _should_ be taking her full attention.

He likes to consider himself a fairly easy-going boss – goodness knows, he himself has a bit of a tendency to randomly wander out for a walk in the middle of the afternoon, and he would gladly let his nurse do the same. But when she's _at_ work, he prefers to have her full attention _on_ work.

No matter how _handsome_ the boy is when he takes off his hat, he thinks sardonically, recalling the afternoon Dia spent recently teasing her best friend about the pretty little coral pendant she's worn everyday since her _anonymous admirer_ first left it in the mailbox, or how nice his laugh.

For that matter, he reflects, annoyance deepening as Graham tugs lightly at the end of one long shimmering braid and she blushes more pinkly than he's ever seen her at the farmer's gentle flirting, _girl talk_ can be a pretty notable distraction, too.

He spends a moment pondering whether or not there's a subtle way to ask Dia to stop putting thoughts like this in Gina's head.

Of course there isn't, he finally decides, turning his eyes firmly and decisively back to his file. It's ridiculous. She's a lovely girl, and an excellent help, but if she prefers shaggy brown hair and muscled arms and sunbrowned face to neatly trimmed black and a skin that needs hours in the sun to turn _white_ from its natural state of _clear_, he can live quite happily with that.

He has his work, and he still has her friendship and help.

Nevertheless, as Gina's beautiful, soft, silvery giggle mingles once again with Graham's easy laugh, Alex can feel his fingers twitching to throw something.

And then, just as his hand moves, almost independently, towards the heavy framed photo of his parents and little brother, Graham whispers something into her ear, and she goes abruptly bright red.

And misses not only the herb she's trying to cut, but the cutting board as well.

Everything seems to be happening at once; she's uttering these little yelps of pain, and Graham is swearing and hunting for bandages and stumbling over apologies, and he's bolting from his desk and swatting the farmer away.

"Let me do that," he orders her firmly as she makes another clumsy attempt to wrap her hand in the bandage Graham managed through sheer luck to find for her.

Already swaying a little with blood loss and the undeniable fact that all that blood is coming from her, she nods compliantly and sways a little more.

Within moments, tranquility returns, only slightly shaken, to the scene, and Gina is dropping obediently to the cot in the corner. Alex, kneeling in front and clipping the bandage into place, shoots Graham a not entirely pleasant look over his shoulder.

"S-sorry," the boy manages, gives Gina's shoulder an apologetic squeeze, and flees before he can find out for himself if the perpetually pleasant doctor actually _can_ lose his temper.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Alex releases a long breath, and peers sternly at the little blue-haired maiden industriously turning bright red and sheepish.

"You understand now why I would rather you visit with your boyfriends outside work hours? You could have been far more severely injured, or made a potentially dangerous mistake with the syrup you were mixing. Please ask him to keep his social calls short."

He would never have believed that a girl as ghost-pale as him naturally could go that shade of red, but when her miserable embarrassment catches his eye more than the strange colours she's turning, he gives her a reassuring smile almost before she can choke out her slightly wobbly apology.

"It's alright, Gina." He's acutely aware of her hands in his, and his shoulder against her knee, and looks away, colouring slightly. "Actually, there's another reason."

Either utterly oblivious to his discomfort of utterly unaware of its cause, Gina simply blinks big sweet honeybrown eyes at him as he continues to flounder.

"What is it, Doctor?"

He grips her unbandaged hand tightly, and she flushes sweetly pink.

"I—I don't think I want to be around when other men are making you blush and giggle. I thought I was good at sharing with the other children, but..."

And then, catching her eyes, laugh fading into a breathless silence, he rises swiftly from the floor and hops onto the cot next to her. She bypasses pink and moves straight to bright red even before his palm finds her cheek, and his rapid uneven breathing finds her wrist when she reaches for him, and his lips find hers, lightly and softly but unmistakably.

After a long moment, they move apart, and he thrills to her soft, shaky laugh brushing his cheek.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

He makes a low noise, like a sigh and a chuckle as he pulls back to _give her her space_.

"Because I couldn't protest to an employee's behaviour based on personal feelings. I had no reason to call your behaviour into question until it became dangerous."

She snuggles closer (because apparently she doesn't _want_ her space), and he can feel her shaking against him with laughter.

"I don't know; making the town doctor angry seems _very_ dangerous to me."

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	3. The People Who Matter CarlEllen

The People Who Matter

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It's been busy around Blue Sky today, so the autumn sky is already heavy with gathering dusk by the time a little apron-clad brunette finds time to sneak away to her new favourite haunt.

The Cafe's probably going to be closing for the day pretty soon, but Ellen hurries along the cobblestone paths of Flowerbud Village nevertheless, elate with the hope that Katie and, um, other people might invite her in to spend the evening.

She gives a pert little knock, and as a response is shouted from within, tries the door handle...

...and gives a startled as a tawny brown, heavily frilled little shape launches itself at her, already ranting furiously away about _something_.

"Um, Katie?" she pipes up hesitantly when her friend stops for a much-needed breath. "Are you okay?"

"_No_, I'm not okay!" Katie snaps. "I just _told_ you, I've been running around all afternoon, getting tea, and hot cocoa, and milk, and fruit punch, and every time I thought he had everything he needed, he came up with seven more things!"

Ellen makes a decidedly unpleasant face. Maybe there was _one_ other reason that she didn't try to escape from the ranch earlier.

Mr. Doug and Mr. Duke, and even Gwen held that Mr. Francis H. Pheberton, the world-renowned gourmet staying at the inn for the season in high regard, and took every chance they could to ask advice on flavourings, spices, seasoning, proper methods of storing vegetables to prolong their life, but Ellen, for her own part, always wanted to run and hide when she saw that familiar foot-and-a-half-tall purple silk hat bobbing nearer.

"Did, um, did it go well?"

Katie gives a hefty, melodramatic sigh.

"No, not really. He said he couldn't taste the _soul_ of the cake, and called them bland, mass-produced garbage. _I_ think he was just being a big bully but Carl's been moping in the kitchen since he left. Go snap him out of it, okay, Ellen?" she concludes pleadingly, nevertheless backing up her _polite request_ with a little muscle and shoving a very startled little ranch girl towards the swinging saloon-style doors leading into the Cafe Callaway's center of operations.

"Ack!" she intones sadly, stumbling slightly through the doorway. Then, as a soft, pale curly head catches her eye, she hurries over to the little table and chairs set for three. "Carl?"

At first, only an unintelligible noise. Then, after a moment, the young man sits bolt upright.

"Ellen! What are you doing here?"

"I—I just came to see how it went with Mr. Pheberton today."

Carl heaves a sigh of one who has lost all hope.

"He said my cakes taste _mass-produced_."

Ellen spends several startled seconds blinking.

"Um..." 

"It isn't a good thing," Carl finally explains sadly. "It means they were made mechanically, without any love. It means I didn't care if the people who ate them enjoyed them or not."

"But that's silly!" Ellen protests hotly. "Everyone in town loves your cakes, and we know how much you love making them! Maybe he was just in a bad mood."

"He's a famous gourmand; he can't take it out on a chef when he's having a bad day, or he never would have gotten so famous." The little pastry chef flopped forward on the table again, and gave an unearthly groan. "I worked so hard on them. There was pecan, and upside-down apple cake, and pumpkin spice cake, and strawberry shortcake...They were the best cakes I ever made!"

The brunette takes moment to wipe away a thin trail of drool at the mention of her two—three—four special favourites, and tries to will away the faint gurgle of her stomach reminding her pettishly what came of skipping lunch _and_ dinner.

"Well, Katie thinks he was just being a bully."

A mournful little laugh, muffled by the tablecloth.

"I know. But Katie just...doesn't understand the culinary world. It's people like Mr. Pheberton who really matter if I want to do this for a career."

Ellen makes a disapproving little noise and crosses her arms. It doesn't even occur to her to be hurt that she and Katie are, apparently, not _people who matter. _

"I don't think he was being a bully, but I'm mad at him for upsetting you. Even if he thought there was room for improvement, he could have taken your age into account and told you so _nicely_."

"The culinary world has no sympathy to spare the young and the weak," he informs the tabletop solemnly, and Ellen starts to giggle, until it occurs to her that he's entirely serious.

"But how on earth do you put more _soul_ into a cake?" she demands. "I think they taste just fine without vague metaphysical nonsense."

He doesn't sit up, but turns his head toward her.

"Really?"

"I'm sure you and Katie were amazing today, Carl," she says consolingly, already enfolding him in a nurturing hug. She giggles against the back of his vest. "I almost wish I was Mr. Pheberton, just for a slice of the pecan."

Carl's eyes grow wide against the surface of the table, and his face goes abruptly bright red as the warmth of her cheek tingles pleasantly at his back, her arms tightly around his shoulders, and her soft, curvy shape against him makes him think that maybe, if his friends are still on his side, all hope isn't entirely lost. It would be _nice_ if Mr. Pheberton were to come charging back in and announce dramatically that he'd had a change of heart and he just couldn't get the strawberry shortcake off his mind, but there's always next time to _really_ wow him.

After all, Mr. Pheberton might be _internationally regarded_ and _world renowned_, but Ellen has prettier eyes, and when it comes right down to it, he'd rather have her smiles, sparkling with delight when he gets creative and draws a bunny with the whipped cream, than all the eloquent words of praise from all the _important_ men in the world.

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